A handful of boys to men,
a herd, a flock, a quiver, a swarm,
red danger flag today, hurricane beyond the horizon, 
foam chops, rip tides slash. They stand unsteadily
waist deep in waves, no surfers or beach dwellers these.
They punch, wrestle, jab each other. Head locks 
and twists, unabashed animal play.
A band, a knot, an army, a pod. The youngest 
encased in life jacket stands slightly apart, 
tests the waters alone. The rest
a pride, a bevy, a gaggle, a shiver,
grab legs, torsos, roar and hoot as they drag each other 
down, a rite of common contortions. Muscles gleam 
against the sun, slender or stocky, they tease and throw 
their willful weight around, uneven-footed, none nods
to the ocean’s power. I can’t stop watching them, tiny specks 
in tumultuous sea. I can’t stop thinking
about the men I love, the strength it takes to swim 
out of the school, the yoke, the troop, the pack,
to fight the relentless pull

There are slow hinges on the kitchen cabinets 
so the doors never slam. But I slam many doors

when my worries become unhinged. Then I slide 
open the screen door and walk out to the ocean.

It urges me to listen
between roar and purr, abandon

my frantic grip trying to steer the tide.
I scroll my fingers over the smooth shell

that rests in my pocket, savor
the slippery sea inside my palm.